His Remedy
by Felandris09
Summary: Trigger warnings: Addiction, withdrawal symptoms, rough sex


Based on a prompt: "Cullen's lyrium withdrawal makes him have desperate, needy sex with Quizzy"

The Cullen and Trevelyan in this piece might or might not be different from the ones in my other stories (the "Ever After" series)- decide for yourself. Because Ever After is set post-game/post-addiction and about happier times, this isn't part of the series.

DISCLAIMER: I have no prior knowledge on addiction, hence the withdrawal symptoms described here are based on limited research. If they seem exaggerated or otherwise inaccurate, I do not mean to cause offense to anyone affected by addiction directly or indirectly.

It starts with a headache; a dull sensation just under the skin of his temples, then a pain creeping in at the back of his skull which in ever-shorter intervals grows into the merciless pounding of a steel hammer.

Then come the sweats; subtly at first, easy to mistake for the mere result of physical exertion. It is only when they turn cold, leaving not just his armpits but his chest, his crotch, the backs of his knees clammy, that the true source of his perspiration makes itself known.

Next are the tremors; a small tremble of his index finger that becomes an all-too obvious shake of both hands too soon. This is how he has come to assume his trademark pose of holding onto his sword when standing up. Some of his recruits have called the gesture vain or arrogant. He prefers them to think of it like that.

Finally it's the anger that hits him; a desperate, blinding rage that comes out of nowhere, crashing down on his soul and latching on to his features, his voice, his posture like a life-sucking parasite. He escapes any social situation whenever he can. Locks himself up in his office and punches the bookshelf or takes it out on an unfortunate practice dummy in the training yard.

And when everything else begins to subside, when he thinks he's made it once more, that's when the call starts. The song of the blue poison that rings so sweetly in his ears, on his mind; the alluring melody that knows he cannot escape it. Its claws linger above his head, its presence enticingly warm yet frighteningly cold; its smell seductively intoxicating yet hideously repulsive.

This is what he goes through nearly every day, what he fears every waking minute. It was his choice, his elected course of action; yet he finds himself wanting to run from it, escape to some other place, some other life.

The only thing that comes anywhere near giving him relief is she. Her scent, her touch, her fingers as they are gripping his curls. Her voice, whimpering so sweetly; her skin with its silky texture, its genuine, welcoming warmth; her hair, smooth and light, yet supple and heavy enough to grasp and find support in. Her tight, slick heat that he is plunging into at maddening speed. Her legs, wrapped around his waist, thighs shaking as his movements have her sliding up and down the cold stone wall. Her breasts, bouncing almost violently with his feverish thrusts, jutting out from her open tunic, buttons scattered on the floor, her band somewhere in a corner.

He has already made her come, with her legs over his shoulders and his mouth between them. Her feeble attempts to thrust up into his face had come to an abrupt stop when he'd removed his tongue from her, replaced it with two fingers then placed his lips on her nub and sucked, hard. Her body had stiffened into complete stillness for a split second before she roared, shaking, gushing, The pain of her ripping out bunches of his hair resonated just about sharply enough to drown out the pounding at the back of his head; the tangy flavour of her pleasure covering up the sour sting of withdrawal on his tongue.

Now his hand is covering her mouth. Part of him would like all of Skyhold to know she is his; but she isn't, and shame weighs in every single one of his thrusts, his thoughts, his breaths. He can't even look at her, clenches his eyes shut instead; it makes him angrier, and he continues his brutal pace, plundering her body for his selfish release.

She's making a desperate, wanton sound now with every snap of his hips; moaning, mewling, gasping, her own song filling his ears, urging him on, and he fucks her even harder.

He comes suddenly, in a raging storm of white-hot release. The force of it takes him out of his body for a moment, lets him float above himself, away from the aches and pains of his body and mind. His headache, the sweat, tremors, his anger; even the noise, that damned song, they are all blissfully, momentarily silenced as he is grunting, heaving, spurting. When it's over and consciousness forces its way back into his hazy mind, he bites his lip, keeping his eyes closed in a sad attempt to prolong the moment, his pathetic little instant of freedom.

He has not managed to bring her to climax again, didn't even think about it. His negligence only dawns on him when he slips out of her, allowing her to slide down the wall, and in avoiding her eyes catches the trickle of his semen on her upper thigh.

She is used to it by now, quietly picking up the scattered pieces of her clothing. She doesn't expect any words or touches, and he tells himself she knows how grateful he is. He doesn't even understand why she complies, lets him take her again and again in secret, like some nameless whore. It's a question he doesn't dare ask her, or himself.

Holding on to his desk with his limp dick hanging out of his breeches, he hangs his head in shame, the only emotion he will allow himself to feel right now. He thinks his headache is already coming back- but what he's feeling is the questioning burn on the back of his head as her eyes linger before she sighs almost inaudibly and bites back tears as she unlocks one of the doors and quietly slips out of his office.

Hearing the click of the lock behind him, he sighs as he fastens his laces. Then he sits down behind his desk and waits for his biggest demon to return.

Thanks for reading!


End file.
